


Queue to Heaven

by sorrens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "Aziraphale" has Schizophrenia, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), I just love coffee shop AUs, M/M, Meet-Cute, cw: gabriel, questionable cafe names, seriously though my one (1) brain cell went all out in inventing this au, that's it you're warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: Crowley has a mysterious job and less-than-mysterious coffee addiction that was predicated on giving his psychiatrist the proverbial finger. When his usual cafe Queue to Hell inexplicably disappears, he finds himself crossing to the other side (of the street), where he finds Bean to Heaven is staffed by an actual-but-not-quite-literal angel.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley refused to tell his friends and acquaintances what he did for his job. Well, all of his friends were acquaintances who’d somehow misunderstood the nature of their relationship with the man. Crowley didn’t have friends: he had a swish vintage Bentley, a tight fitting suit, a penchant for sunglasses and an insatiable caffeine addition.

Of course, he was quick to reassure Martha at the dry cleaners and Timothy the mailman that what he did was all very legal, and that made them more concerned, as if the legality of his pursuits were ever in question. If you asked Martha, she’d guess the sharp, brooding man worked for the mafia — not breaking legs (he’d sooner break his own matchsticks) but probably weaving intricate plots of fraudulent transaction and general evilness. If Martha were completely honest, she wasn’t quite sure what the mafia actually did either.

In keeping with his personal mantra to “make enemies not friends” he’d managed to find a cafe that catered to his specific needs. His needs were as follows:

1\. No matter how often he frequented the coffee joint, the barista never attempted to learn his name.

He’d found that in "**The Queue to Hell"**. It was a hole in the wall, with no room for seating (get in and get out) and a strict policy of “just coffee”. Don’t go in there asking for any venti ice-cream moccachino nonsense or for a croissant, the barista would bite your head off. Literally, figuratively, it was hard to tell with Beez. Crowley joined the queue out the door at the morning rush and reached the counter in a painful amount of time. The price you pay for anonymity.

He ordered his regular Long Black (with a splash of cream — he wasn’t that much of a sadist) and Beez barked orders to the two baristas cowering behind the machine. He only the head barista’s name because they liked to talk in the third person a lot, buzzing around their incompetent staff and criticising their technique with a “Beez didn’t teach you to be sloppy.”

It had take Crowley a few weeks to realise they were talking about themselves.

Crowley took the docket that told him today he was #45. The Queue didn’t bother trying to learn the 135 spellings of Caitlyn and weren’t about to have their employees waste time caring about their customers.

It filled Crowley with a warm fuzzy feeling.

“45!” The stout man behind the counter shoved the coffee in to his hands.

“Have a nice day!” Crowley responded, with a cheesy smile.

“Heck off.” The barista mumbled and went back to his work.

_What a great day._

* * *

The weekend was a black hole of boredom and despair. Crowley was at loose ends without his job to keep him busy. He didn’t have any hobbies, or interests, and it was on the weekends that he almost regretted not having friends. He wondered if the dry cleaners was open on a Saturday and he could pop in with wrinkled shirt to get a conversation out of Martha.

Instead he ended up talking to the ducks at St. James’ park.

* * *

Monday rolled around his relief, and he sauntered towards The Queue before he drove to work. There was no queue, it seemed. As the man drew closer, he saw with a sinking heart, that the place was boarded up. His favourite coffee shop had been swallowed up by the earth. He ran a hand anxiously through his red hair. Anxiously, because, caffeine had a calming effect on the man. In fact, he’d stopped taking his anxiety medication in favour of three strong cups a day. His doctor both hated and admired him. Crowley hated him, he liked to call him “Anthony.”

“_Shit, shit, shit_.” He quickened his pace. A creature of habit, he needed a coffee to be able to drive to work without murdering anyone, and he needed to be at work in 29 minutes and it was a 22 minute drive if he deigned to obey the road rules. He rounded the block, having never had to take stock of what other cafes were around, he was surprised to only see one.

He snorted.

“**Bean to Heaven**.” was crammed between an optometrist and a solicitor’s office and sported a logo of a coffee cup with wings and a halo. Given his previous dwelling of choice, Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if his feet burnt upon entering the cafe. It was worth the risk. Anything for the coffee.

He pushed open the door with trepidation. There was a reason why he liked The Queue so much and that was that he hated small talk. It made his palms sweat and his legs get all shaky. His doctor had said that he needed more exposure. Crowley had decided he needed more coffee instead.

“Good morning, welcome to heaven!” Trilled a voice behind the counter, making the man inwardly cringe. _Was it too late to throw himself out the window?_

“Huh, uh, hi.” He stepped forward to see a man with fluffy blond hair standing behind the counter and, glowing. Maybe he was in heaven. Oh no, it was just the spotlights behind the counter that gave the man an ethereal quality.

“What can I get for you today? My name is Ezra.” The man smiled warmly. He sounded like he was genuinely interested in his visitor, unlike the regular customer service voice that was like fingernails on a chalkboard for Crowley.

“Ahhhh,” he stepped forward awkwardly and tried to remember why he was there. “Oh, coffee. Yes!”

The barista quirked a smile.

“Care to be more specific?” _Oh, shit._ Crowley could feel his nails start digging in to his palms in an attempt to stop the shaking.

“Ah, um, I mean.” _Pull yourself together. This man, Ezra, is going to think you’re a laughing stock._ This thought didn’t make things better.

“Oh dear.” The barista shuffled out from behind the counter and took Crowley’s arm gently. “Let me get you to a seat.” He walked the redhead over to the assortment of mismatch sofas that clustered around tables. “I think you need a moment.”

The hand on his arm remained as Crowley drew a ragged breath and tried to crawl out of the mental spiral. It was fine. He was here, he was breathing, he was getting ridiculously worked up about ordering coffee. He chuckled despite himself, and wiped his eyes.

“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He brushed off the blonds arm. “So stupid, having strangers to mother me when I get like this.” He turned himself slightly away from the other man, who had folded his hands in his lap, over a crisp brown apron.

“Nonsense,” Ezra scolded, much like a mum. “We all have our difficulties, my dear, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He stood up and returned to his machine.

“Can I ask again?”

Now that Crowley was seated and his mind was slowly untangling itself, he remembered what he was here for.

“Long black with a splash of cream.” He smiled wanly.

“The coffee probably won’t help.”

“That’s what the cream is for, it dilutes the caffeine.” He said.

“You don’t honestly believe that?”

“No I’m just pulling your leg, angel.”

Crowley froze as the endearment fell from his lips, back on the precipice of that dark spiral he was circling. But the barista hadn’t seemed to notice. In fact, he was making quite a bit of noise behind the counter and reappeared holding a takeaway cup with a little meringue perched on top.

“Thank you,” Crowley said stiffly, lurching up and fumbling for his wallet.

“No,” the barista said firmly.

“No?”

“You can have it for free with one condition.”

Crowley’s mind leapt to the wildest fantasies and found he didn’t quite mind.

“Can you take off your sunglasses for me?”

Crowley froze. For some reason the request was far more intimate, and terrifying, than anything he’d been imagining.

“I mean, I can. But, they’re pretty—“ he struggled to find a less terrifying word for “terrifying” and gave up, slowly pushing the glasses on to the top of his head.

“They are—“

He was determinedly looking at the ground as the barista looked at him.

“They are terrifying?” He found himself snapping.

“Oh no! Dear, they’re pretty.”

Crowley’s stomach lurched. He’d never heard that about his bright gold eyes before, spoken with such reverence. His employer had even given him special permission to wear his glasses indoors because they “creeped him out.”

He took the cup awkwardly.

“Ah, thanks.” He flushed slightly. This was a different kind of warmth to the kind he felt holding #45.

“I should, ah.” His legs were taking him out of there like a madman, he nearly dropped his coffee as he shouldered open the door and retreated at a half-sprint towards his apartment.

* * *

He turned up to work ridiculously late and wearing some of his coffee. Rather than tell him off, his superiors gave him a once over and walked away with concern. Crowley was very good at not letting his anxiety seep in to his work life. In fact, he’d spent nearly a decade building the persona he now inhabited from 9 till 5. But, for once, his thoughts were not on his stained shirt or the way his coworkers stared.

He realised he hadn’t told the barista his name.

He wanted to fix that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally builds up the courage to return to the cafe and introduce himself, only to find Ezra accompanied by a pretty girl.  
He finds out that honesty brings people together.

True to his anxiety, he managed to avoid Bean to Heaven for three days until he mustered up the courage to return. He’d been subsisting off of McDonald’s coffees in the interim and it was becoming gradually more painful than the thought of having to see the barista again.

He wanted an excuse to stay, so he bought his laptop with the intentions of setting up in one of the cute little seating areas. He didn’t work from his laptop, didn’t even use it really, so when he entered the cafe and there was no one behind the counter, he sprawled in one of the cozy seats and opened a game of Minecraft.

As far as cures-for-the-nervous went, Minecraft was decidedly no help and Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin when someone spoke.

“Hello, what can I get you?”

_Feminine._

Crowley looked up slowly to see a girl with flowing brown hair and thick glasses standing at the register.

His throat seized up. Where was Ezra?

He clumsily put his laptop aside and hurried over to the counter.

“Ah, a coffee.”

He was shaking and it was probably visible to the girl. He mentally berated himself for assuming the barista would be working that day. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have a day off, to spend with friends and family, of course that man had friends. He was way in over his depth. His depth was approximately the depth of the average takeaway cup, and he couldn’t even manage to order that without hyperventilating.

“Can you be more specific?” She smiled at him. It sounded better coming from Ezra.

“Long black, dash of cream.” The red head forced out and glared at the ground as she set about making it.

“And what was your name?”

His lips refused to move. He didn’t want this random girl knowing his name. He shook his head slightly before another voice entered the conversation.

“Very good question, Anathema dear. I never quite caught your name Mr…?” Ezra emerged from the back room, giving Anathema’s shoulder a small squeeze and pressing a kiss to her forehead. The angel was here, and doting on his girlfriend, but Crowley had sworn he’d introduce himself and he had an appointment with his psychiatrist later today and he wanted to be able to share some good new.

“Crowley. No Mr. though, just Crowley.” Ezra’s smile reached all the way up to crinkle the corners of his eyes.

“Lovely. And I do hope you’re feeling better now.” That was a statement, but Crowley suddenly felt compelled to come clean, get all of his failings out in the open so he could be rejected in one swift swoop.

“As good as I can be, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. The barista frowned abandoned the counter as Anathema continued to make the drink.

“How so?”

Good god the man was so close that Crowley could smell the vestiges of freshly baked croissants that clung to the man’s apron. He was only slightly shorter than the red head, and stared up at him with soft blue eyes, leaving less than step between them.

“’S silly.” Crowley looked away, embarrassed. Why was he about to go pouring his deepest secrets to a guy he’d met for all of 10 minutes? He remembered the warmth of Ezra’s hand on his arm as he guided him in to a seat. It felt trustworthy. As trustworthy as a simple touch could get.

“It’s a… I have… it’s an anxiety disorder.”

This did not earn the recoil that he expected from the other man, rather, it was almost as if Ezra leaned in a bit more.

“Why is that silly?” He demanded, planting his hands on his hips in what would’ve been comical given any other situation.

Crowley felt the glare boring in to his skull. He needed to give the right answer.

He decided to echo what his psychiatrist had said to him the session prior.

“It’s such a normal thing, everyone gets anxious, but I let it get out of hand and I spiral. I’m soft. I need to be able to control it.” He said helplessly.

“I’m sorry but where the eff did you get that from?” Anathema bustled over and slammed the coffee beside his laptop.

“My psychiatrist?” Crowley frowned.

“Is your psychiatrist a drill sergeant with the emotional range of a teaspoon? What a twat. Who says that?”

Crowley couldn’t help but snigger. He was grateful for everything Dr Archangel had done for him in the last few years, just because Crowley was not the type to be ungrateful or stand up for himself. Strangely, Anathema’s cursory judgement of the man was more spot on than anything the psychiatrist himself had ever said.

“Charming Anathema, dear.” Ezra admonished, but his steely glare seemed to indicate he agreed with what his partner had said.

“What? I see it and I call it.” She shrugged, returning to the counter.

As much as Crowley had been intent on disliking her on principle, he felt he was warming to the girl.

The two of them sat down as Crowley fought to get his nervous system back under control. He’d just willingly admitted he was mess to the one person he wanted as a friend.

“I have Schizophrenia.” The barista shrugged and Crowley looked up in shock.

“Well, I did when I was younger. Thought I was an actual angel, called Aziraphale, and I was sent to earth to stop the apocalypse.” Anathema knew. She’d taken him in when he finally got released from care. Kept him on his medications. Gave him a job now that his study prospects were in tatters.

“Why—“

“Why am I telling you this? A random person off the street.” Ezra shrugged. “I guess I never learnt to be ashamed of it. It was just, me. Sure, I lost a lot when things started going downhill. But I kept what matters and it’s all made me stronger.”

His eyes flicked over to where Anathema was rearranging the cabinet.

“It’s nice you’ve found someone who loves you.” He nodded and found that he meant when he said.

“Ha!” Anathema pulled her head out of the cabinet. “I don’t love that kid — absolute pain in the arse! Keeps all his books at my place and spends half the time complaining about the quality of crepes in London.”

“Anathema, you can’t call me a kid. I’m only a year younger than you.”

“I can call everyone a kid.” She waved the tongs she was holding fiercely. “Especially those who act like brats.” She snapped her tongs at the barista, who gave her a sarcastic smile.

Crowley looked between the two, confused. The playful teasing. The small kiss on the forehead.

“Is she your sister?”

It was Ezra’s turn to laugh.

“Oh, heavens no. I’ve only had to endure her presence in my life for the last fifteen years.”

“It has been quite the struggle for you, hasn’t it?” She simpered.

“So you’re… dating?”_ God_, Crowley’s head ached with the effort to navigate this conversation.

Ezra blushed.

“No, definitely not.”

“Why can’t—“ Anathema hoisted herself up on to the counter, her long skirt still almost grazing the floor. “A man and a woman open a cafe together, spend all of their time together, give each other cutesy kisses and make the others’ life a living hell just-as-friends?”

That didn’t make things any clearer to their visitor.

“What Anathema means to say is that she’s not my first preference.” Ezra said quietly and Crowley’s muscles seized up. Oh, OH.

It was very claustrophobic in the small cafe. Crowley could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He wanted— he wanted to—

Leave.

Well, maybe he didn’t want to, but the basal part of his brain was screaming out for flight and that always won out.

He stumbled to his feet.

“I have to— you know, work and stuff—“ he picked up his coffee. “It was nice seeing both of you!”

When the door closed behind him, Anathema let out a cackle.

“Smooth move, kiddo.”

Ezra stuck out his tongue, eyes falling on the table the red head had just vacated.

“Oh dear, he’s left his laptop behind.”

Anathema smirked, swanning over and grabbing the case.

“All set for date number two.” She teased.

Ezra rolled his eyes but secretly wondered how long it’d take Crowley to return for it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel F. Archangel is a psychiatrist with a specialisation in being an absolute wanker.

Dr Gabriel F. Archangel had a little brass nameplate attached to the building where his office sat. He had a receptionist called Michelle that he tended to leer at in a way that made Crowley nervous as he sat in the waiting room. Everything about the man made him nervous, if he were honest. Dr Archangel was a shark who preyed on the souls of the weak and innocent. Who else would go through 8 years of medical training just to sit around and listen to Crowley tell a story about how he nearly had a panic attack ordering coffee? Maybe that was a trick question, he sometimes got the impression that the doctor wasn’t listening to anything he said at all.

It was 4:40. Crowley’s appointment was scheduled for 4:30 and every minute that ticked by was making him more jittery. He’d seen his psychiatrist, swanning around the office, chatting with Michelle. His last patient had left early. Nevertheless, Crowley was stuck waiting.

“Anthony!” The grey suited man beckoned him towards his office, teeth bared in an unsettling smile. “How great to see you.”

_Fingernails on a chalkboard._

Crowley gave noncommittal shrug in lieu of a greeting and tried to ignore in unwanted use of his first name.

“So, what brings you here today?” Gabriel perched behind his desk, fingers steepled. It hadn’t escaped Crowley’s notice in the time he’d been coming for appointments, that the desk and chair were raised so the doctor was looking down on his patient.

“I have anxiety.” He said with gritted teeth, as if to remind the man who’d diagnosed him in the first place.

“Oh! Still dealing with that one are we?” Gabriel leaned back in his chair, tone dripping with condescension. “I was hoping based on our last session that you’d… worked it out.”

Crowley shrank in disappointment. Yes, that was the conversation they’d had. Gabriel had reasoned that because Crowley had been going to work without incident for a couple of months now that he was practically asymptomatic. The layman’s term he’d used was “_fine_.”

“Right, well, there’s been a few issues.”

Gabriel paused, one eyebrow raised.

Before he could be rudely interrupted, Crowley powered on.

“I’ve been trying to be more social and put myself out there and I met someone.”

Gabriel leaned forward, eyes shining.

“Perfect! So you’ve found yourself a girlfriend, what seems to be the issue?”

Crowley wrung his hands together, unwilling to correct the doctor.

“Well, _SHE_ is very lovely but my anxiety is getting in the way of seeing her. So I told her as much.”

Gabriel put his head in his hands.

“Why, Anthony? Why would you think that was a good idea?”

“Well, he kind of saw me have a panic attack and I thought it’d be okay if I explained it and it was. Turns out he has mental health issues too and was really understanding but it all got a bit too much I guess and I ran out.”

He looked up to find Gabriel holding up a hand.

“Wait, wait, wait… he?”

In Crowley’s desperation to air the whole story before he was cut off, he’d slipped with a few details. Not to worry.

“Crowley in all our months of working together,” (_Years_, Crowley mentally corrected) “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about any relationships.”

“That’s because I have social anxiety <strike>you moron</strike>.” He was reminded of Anathema’s cursory assessment of the man and wondered if she would accept 120 pounds for a half hour counselling session instead.

“I guess what I’m asking is, would you be able to elaborate on your sexual orientation?”

“Well, er, I never really thought about it. I just tend to focus on… avoiding people so, it never really came up.”

“Are you attracted to this man?” Gabriel couldn’t quite hide the grimace.

“I—,” this was the last person he should be telling, but in a streak of defiance, Crowley’s brain spat out the truth.

“Yes, I believe I am.”

Gabriel’s face was unreadable.

“And you said he was mentally ill?”

“Well, he was when he was younger. He told me he had Schizophrenia and thought he was an angel for a while. But that was ages ago.” Crowley wasn’t sure why he sounded so defensive, perhaps he wanted Dr Archangel to approve the relationship, perhaps he’d have better luck moving to outer space.

Dr. Archangel scoffed.

“He’s lying to you. Schizophrenia doesn’t just go away. You’re stuck with it.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Okay, well I’m kinda stuck too right now.”

“No, you don’t understand. People like your_ little friend_ can be dangerous.”

Crowley thought of the little barista with his tight curls and rosy cheeks.

“No, I think you’re wrong.” He said uncertainly. “Ezra couldn’t hurt anybody.”

“Whatever you think you know about this man, you’re not seeing the truth. That comes out when he gets sick in the head again. It’s not your fault that you fell in with someone like that, but you have to get yourself out before it’s too late. Please, Anthony.” Gabriel clasped his hands together, and it was the closest to concern he’d ever heard in the guy, so Crowley decided to hear him out.

“I care about you and your wellbeing.”

<strike>Hearing him out…</strike>

“It would just damage you further to get close to someone so unloveable.”

Crowley stood up so quickly his chair topped back. His vision was clouded by the anger swelling in his chest. Perhaps it was a good thing the doctor had chosen to have a desk between them, because if he were in arm’s reach the man was sure he’d punch him.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He hissed. “Pass judgement on Ezra like that.”

Gabriel looked taken aback at the sudden change in pace, but collected himself quickly.

“Anthony, I do have a panic button and I don’t want to have to press it on you. We have a strict rule that anyone who causes trouble can’t come back.”

Crowley’s jaw was set. He eyed the empty office and the large panelled glass windows. In that moment he was determined to never come crawling back to this hellhole. He just needed some incentive to stay on course.

“Like I’d fucking come back and talk to you, you pompous prick!” Crowley yelled, lifting up his chair and sending it crashing through the nearest window.

The alarm sounded and he fled, past Michelle and the patients waiting at reception.

“So long suckers!” He hissed at the curious onlookers as a wave of adrenaline washed through his body. He was running down the street before Michelle had even thought to call the police. In the end she’d never end up filing a report, despite telling Gabriel she did, she’d heard the conversation on the other side of the door. It was the best thing that had happened to her in years.

Flushed with success, Crowley jogged back towards Mayfair and found himself headed to the cafe instead of his apartment. Since he’d said it out loud, everything felt right and he had just enough confidence to make it right. Sure, he’d met Ezra all of twice, but it felt like he’d known him for a thousand years. He wanted to know him even more. Also, He wanted to tell Anathema that he’d thrown chair through a window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychs like Gabriel, more common than you'd think, stay woke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm not super happy with this ending, it feels a bit half baked and that's probably because I wrote it in class whoops. Might come back and make a few edits.  
They're still cuties regardless. Soak up the fluff.

Ezra was just wiping down the tables, ready to close, when the door was flung open. Even with his dark glasses, Crowley looked practically manic.

This in itself was enough to confuse the barista, who felt he might of overstepped in sharing what he did with the man. He’d hoped it’d bring them closer, but it had all but scared the red head away. Now he was back.

“I need to hide,” his voice was urgent, but bubbling over with mirth. He crammed himself under one of the chairs, cackling.

Caught off guard and absolutely baffled by the man’s sudden change, Ezra could only begin to articulate the questions he had.

He started with the most pertinent.

“What the fuck?” Ah, yes, that should suffice.

Crowley beckoned the man and he crouched down tentatively near where the red head had carefully folded himself. Was this his psychotic break?

“Itolmypsyctogetfked.” It came out in a jumble that Ezra struggled to disentangle.

“Pardon?”

“I told Gabriel Fucking Archangel to get fucked! And then I put a chair through his window.”

Ezra’s heart stopped and his palms began to sweat.

He could see that the man was ecstatic. This was the most unburdened he’d seen him. In fact, Crowley felt a huge weight lifted from his being, like he had been released from a cloud of self-hatred and judgement that Dr. Archangel had stoked with their monthly appointments.

“I don’t think—“

“That’s the thing!” Crowley exclaimed, wriggling out of his hiding spot so that he was sprawled on the floor. “I didn’t think! I just got really angry. I was talking about you and he was so rude that I just— acted on instinct. Stood up for myself!”

Ezra was about to argue that putting a chair through a window was a far cry from being assertive but the other’s words caught him.

“Wait, you were talking about me?”

Crowley froze and promptly turned the shade of a strawberry.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—“

“No, it’s fine. I was just curious.” Ezra cut him off, kind of enjoying the way the man got flustered so quickly. “What did you say?”

The adrenaline was wearing off. Now Crowley was feeling less giddy and more anxious and he began to turn in on himself. Unable to meet the barista’s eye, lest he see the telltale sign of rejection, he stammered out.

“I told him that I made a friend. I consider you my friend.” He glanced up briefly and was glad to see the blond nodding gently, rather than recoiling with fright. Emboldened, he powered on. “And then he grilled me, said I shouldn’t hang out with people like you. I’m sorry I accidentally told him what you told me and he seemed worried.”

Crowley hung his head in shame.

“I’m sorry, angel, I shouldn’t have told him your secret.”

To his surprise, he felt strong arms wrap around him, and he didn’t hate it.

“It’s not a secret. I’d tell anyone and everyone if only find out who was truely able to see past it. You scared me when you took off.”

Crowley frowned.

“I thought I’d scared you away.”

A look of horror crossed the red head’s face.

“Oh, no. It wasn’t because of what you told me!” His words were tripping over each other trying to get out. “I just got so… so… I don’t have friends.” He confessed by way of explanation. “I’m not good at friends and I think I just didn’t want to stuff things up so I ran and… stuffed things up.”

He stared off in to space as if finally putting the pieces together.

“_Oh_,”

Ezra chuckled and released him, leaning back on his hands.

Crowley didn’t have friends because he went out of his way to avoid them. Suddenly he felt like an idiot, it had been right in front of him the whole time. Any half decent therapist could have pointed out the obvious, of course, Dr. Archangel was the furthest thing from… He’d almost gone out of his way to find fault in Crowley. But it wasn’t him who was the one wrong, it was the way he went about things.

The feeling of lightness grew such that it threatened to lift Crowley off the ground.

He caught Ezra’s bright blue eyes, which smiled back at him: acceptance, joy, and a flicker of something the red head couldn’t quite place.

“Does it bother you?”

Crowley blanked.

“What bother me?”

“What I told you, about my disorder? It’s not fun. It’s not nice to be around. I mean, I’ve largely got it under control and Anathema is great about it, haven’t had a lapse in years but he’s right you know.”

“Who?”

“Your stupid, idiot prick of a doctor. People like me aren’t for everyone.” He voice broke as he stared determinedly at the ground. “It wasn’t for my parents. They kicked me out when I became too much. I don’t have many people—“

Crowley felt a great anger stirring in his chest, which came out as a pitiful growl.

“Fuck all of them, angel. They don’t know you, the real you.”

“You don’t know me.” Ezra laughed softly. “You’ve met me three times, dear.”

Crowley stiffened, like he was about to argue.

“But I see you. You’re so pure-hearted and warm and you gave me a coffee as an excuse to see my eyes!” Crowley just realised how ridiculous the last part and started laughing. Perhaps Ezra had the same realisation, because he became rather sheepish.

“Sorry, that might have been a bit forward. Seems a bit like flirting when you say it like that.”

“Was it?” He’d let the sunglasses slide down his nose, amber eyes peeked over almost hopefully.

The barista blushed.

“I— well— er—“

“Anytime now angel.”

As if emboldened by the endearment, Ezra took a deep breath and locked eyes with him.

“I don’t get many handsome men walking in to my shop, and when they do Anathema usually gets them.” He ducked his head shyly.

“And then you were so sweet, and nervous, and—“

“—You had to mother me?” Crowley finished cheekily.

“That’s what I do!” Ezra protested weakly.

“I like it.” He replied softly, inching a bit closer.

“I’m not sweet, by the way.” He levelled the blond with a hard stare. “I’m terrifying.”

“You’re trying very hard at it.” The barista teased. “The leather jacket and dark glasses and ridiculously tight pants,” his voice faltered slightly at the last one.

“Terrifying.” Crowley grinned like a cat.

“That reminds me, I never got to ask what you did for work? Is it the mafia, or the secret service, or,”

He trailed off as the other man blushed behind his sunglasses.

“Ngk,”

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Machildbookillustrator,”

“I’m a children’s book illustrator, okay!” He burst out, a mixture of exasperation and a hint of pride. Ezra caught the pride, it warmed his heart even more than knowing his crush didn’t break legs for a living.

“That’s adorable,” he cooed, and the look he got in return could kill on sight. “Is there any books that I might know?”

Crowley snorted.

“Frequent picture book reader, are we?”

“Just humour me.”

“Well, you might know… have you heard of… Hello Angel?”

Ezra bounced up on to his knees in excitement.

“You mean the beautiful cover with the galaxy illustration. It was bestseller for months last year!”

“Ngk, yeah that’s the one.”

The barista let out a gasp, like he was meeting a minor celebrity, which Crowley found quite cute. But when he didn’t calm down, the red head grew worried.

“Uh, Ezra? It’s really not a big deal.”

“But, but, I named the cafe after that book.” He breathed in wonder. “Well, not exactly, I used to work at the library and I read that book every day to the kids and when I finally had enough money saved to carve my own path, I just wanted part of that old life with me.”

“Bean to Heaven,” Crowley murmured. “Hello angel, have you been to heaven today?”

Ezra grinned.

“And it was you!”

Crowley shook his head.

“Not really, I just did the pictures.”

“But the pictures were everything,” the barista said with the upmost sincerity.

“Ngk,” Crowley was feeling especially inarticulate today.

They sat in silence, just staring at each other in wonderment.

The sky was beginning to grow dark when Ezra finally summoned the courage to move his hand three inches to the left, curling his fingers around Crowley’s. The man didn’t flinch, but the barista could tell he’d stopped breathing for the moment. Best to say it quickly then.

“Crowley, I was wondering if you’d be interested in going out some time?”

The red head squeaked.

‘Or we can be friends. We can go out as friends. Do friend stuff.” Ezra amended.

“Both, both would be good.” Crowley exhaled. “Both would be amazing.”

They grinned at each other as Crowley tangled his fingers around to return the gentle squeeze.

“So, do you believe Dr. Archangel called the police?” Ezra cleared his throat. This caused Crowley to laugh.

“Nah, he’s too proud to admit that he lost control of one of his patients.”

“Good riddance,” the barista murmured and they stood up stiffly in the dim light of the cafe. “Did you want to get dinner?”

* * *

Anthony Crowley, liked coffee and hated his first name. In fact, he liked coffee too much, with an addiction near impossible to thwart (though Ezra was trying his darnedest.) So far, he’d managed to cut back to two coffees a day, lovingly prepared at a Mayfair cafe by his boyfriend. It had been easy enough to thwart the habit when Crowley had realised that not only was Ezra’s presence was calming enough but also, despite everything he despised about the man, Dr. Archangel was correct when he said that caffeine was bad for anxiety.

At least he was right about something.

**Author's Note:**

> I am Crowley.  
Crowley is me.  
I'm a coffee snob with a raging anxiety disorder and I've managed to kick the worst of the habit for the sake of my sanity but I still believe it has calming properties and my psychiatrist hates me for it.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one shot but then my characters started having depth???!!! and anxiety disorders???!! so I figured I'd stretch it out a bit.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [@sorrens](https://sorrens.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please feel free to browse my other Good Omens fics. I've written a few AUs, some angst, some crack, some questionable use of internet humour, basically ineffable husbands in many flavours.


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